


/crybaby

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Bulimia, Depression, Dyslexia, Infanticide, Inspired by Music, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-13 03:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11750784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Murderface multiplied by Melanie.





	1. Crybaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They call you crybaby, crybaby.

**_Or, in which William whines, cries and weeps._ **

"You just haven't really been. You know. Delivering." Nathan shrugged. "On that, uh, that bass."

"What'sch that schupposched to mean?" Already, William's voice was wavering. Oh god, not again, not again. He whimpered, hands tightly clasped together like a little net to catch all the tears. "Am... am I doin' bad?" His chest felt tight.

"I mean, you're fine, just kinda..." Nathan looked off to the side, avoiding William's gaze. "...crappy at bass lately."

"Bes honests." Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "He sounds like fuckin's shits ever since Magnus dones lefts. May as well gets a new bassist toos." William felt a sharp pang in his little heart. He didn't even realize he'd gotten so bad. Oh god, he was a real liability. He whimpered once more, this time a bit louder. Loud enough for the other three band members to hear, anyway. They were all staring at him. Mocking him. He hated it.

"Skwisgaar, I was tryin' to be nice."

"But Natens, he gots to accepts de constructives critimisms. And my critickism ams dat he sounds like de trash."

"He's not a bad bassist, he's just... kinda... crummy... recently."

"I ain't crummy, I'm- I'm doin' my bescht!" The finger-net became tighter, and his knuckles turned white. "I'm a good bassch player..."

"Den proves it and quits playin's likes a fuckin's dildos."

"Skwisgaar," Nathan sighed. "I'm trying to be  _nice_."

"Nobody dones gots nothin's from bein's nice."

"Guys." Pickles pushed past the two. "It's like, 10 AM, my hungover ass is still tryin' to sleep."

"Well sorry, we're having an important conversation about the future of the band, you drunk fuck."

"What, what is it."

"Dat Moiderface dones sucks."

 _Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it._ William's chest hurt and he wanted to just disappear or anything. Anything but being here. His hands were trembling and he was staring at the floor. He wanted to sink into the floor and just go away for awhile. Not exist. Maybe for a second. But when he came to everyone was looking at him.

"Are you cryin', dood?"

"Criesbabies."

He bit his lip, wiping his cheek with his palm. Oh god, he really was. Oh god. Gross. 

"Donn' lookit me."

"It's okey, Willy."

"Shuddup. 'm goin' to my room, 'm quittin' Dethklok forever."

"You said that last week, too." Nathan remarked. Pickles shot an angry look at him. "What? It's true."

William shook his head, clenching fistfuls of his short, scruffy hair and stomping off in his knee-high boots. Even with his back turned, they could still hear him whining. Whines turned to sobs, which turned to wails as he ran to the only bedroom in the apartment, crawling underneath the blanket and hiding himself.

"I ain't a crybaby."

And yet, the tears did fall.

_They call you crybaby, crybaby, but you don't fuckin' care._


	2. Dollhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I see things that nobody else sees.

_**Or, in which the elderly are given far more leeway to be complete douchebags** _

The back of his neck hurt. Which is, generally, what happens when one gets smacked on the back of the head with a hardcover book.

Certainly people had ought to know by now the way William's grandmother treated him. If they did, they just didn't give a fuck. An adequate response from his hometown. After all, he wasn't sure if there was a single young boy around that hadn't been beaten at least once. Even Maxie, his arch-nemesis, had been slapped before, he was sure. But they were not even in the same ballpark of pain that William had to suffer on a daily basis.

No baths or showers most of the time. Water was expensive and Stella was more focused on paying for cable and electricity so that she could consume her daily dose of braindead televangelism. Laundry wasn't done, either. There were roaches and rats, which was the only reason Stella allowed him to own a pet snake in the first place. (That didn't last long, either.)

Of course, he had said so at the All-Boys Lunch Table once or twice. The responses were cold.

"Your grandma sounds fuckin' cool. She lets you do whatever you want." Benjamin Andrews would always be the first one to say so. His parents were, allegedly, incredibly restrictive. William would have preferred just being trapped inside all day than going out on the town, only for everyone to hate him. 

And she didn't let him do whatever he wanted, anyway. He couldn't make too much noise upstairs when the TV was on. Wasn't allowed to be out past 10, and couldn't leave until he'd done all his chores and homework. (Which was a lot.) Just because she didn't give a fuck didn't mean he could do whatever he wanted. Because Stella was 8 times his size and, even in her motorized scooter, wasn't afraid to get violent.

But he never brought up any of that.

Because nobody really gave a fuck.

It was an exercise in futility, trying to discuss his family problems. After all, everyone else was just as much of a  _dirty, angry, ugly hick_ as his grandmother was. Even William was a  _dirty, angry, ugly hick_. In a  _hick town_ with nothing but  _hick stuff to do_. He hated it more than anything. When grandma got presents because grandpa was all comatose, and the noises her old wrinkled lips made when she chewed, and the face she'd make when William would say that there was no god.

Why did he always keep the curtains drawn? People would've cared if he were just a little younger.

Nobody gives a fuck if you abuse a teenager, right?

Besides, they'd just walk into his house with his forgotten homework, only to see a photo of him standing proudly with his grandparents, just the way they wanted him to. "They're old", a lot of his classmates would say, "old people did shit differently in their time".

Truly frightening, the idea of a time like that. And then people would ask, "was your grandma abused when she was younger? Maybe that's why she's mean to you". They didn't even know the half of it, so he'd just shrug. 

"Hey Pissface." He heard a tap on the lunch table. "Are you scratching your fuckin' balls?"

"Wh--" Oh. He may very well have been. "...My undiesch ain't been washed in awhile, scho--"

"You haven't washed your underwear? What the fuck is wrong with you? Knowing you, I bet there's fuckin' shit marks on it."

"No there ain't!"

"Whatever, Shitterface."

That's right. Because nobody knew what his home life was like, he'd have to take the blame instead.

_D-O-L-L-H-O-U-S-E, I see things that nobody else sees_


	3. Sippy Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood still stains when the sheets are washed, sex don't sleep when the lights are off.

_**Or, in which bulimia is so 1987** _

"William."

"Dr. Flanagan."

"...You lost weight again."

William considered that a victory. He had stuffed his pockets with change and still came out thinner. It was amazing. He felt great. He felt like he was going to fall over, and puke, and it was great, it was all amazing. "William, have you been eating properly?"

"Been eatin' eggy weggsch."

When the questions came around, usually he'd just fuck with the doctor.

"I might have to refer you to a psychologist."

"Yeh fink there'sch schome'fin wrong wit' me gulliver?"

"William, please."

"A real horrorshow head wound, eh? Righty right?"

"This is serious and you know it."

"Pour me a glassch a' that moloko plusch scho we can go out for a schwell night of the ultraviolensche."

"You can't even look me directly in the eye right now."

"Cabbage."

"How many times do I need to tell you what'll happen if you don't eat?"

"I do eat."

Dr. Flanagan sighed, pinching his nosebridge in annoyance. "Looksch like schomeone'sch dear devotchka ain' been performin' the in-out-in-out lately."

"Whatever." He groaned, arms crossed. "If you wanna die that's fine by me."

"That ain't well nische, doc."

"Take the jacket off, I need to re-weigh you." William swallowed. "Come on. Off with the jacket. Hurry it up, I don't have all day and you know it." He whined instead, tugging the sleeves up and over his hands. "Fuck's sakes." He grabbed the back of William's favorite leather jacket, peeling it off of his body. And then, silence.

One scar for the time he broke the fine china. Two for his birthday. A few more for the fight with Skwisgaar he had. Nine-thousand for disappointing everybody. His arms were ravaged like rocky valleys and plateaus, ridges, almost fossilizing in his skin. A mark on history. His scars, the pain he felt, engraved on his body like a tattoo. It was art. Painful, painful art. He could feel the doctor staring at his arms. The blood that they had left on his bedsheets.

"...William, I--"

"Charlesch!" He shoved his jacket in Dr. Flanagan's hands, running out the door. "Charlesch, I ain't goin' to the doctor no more!"

So he wouldn't get fat and he wouldn't be punished for punishing himself. He was trying to help everyone, so why, why did they get so concerned? He wasn't depressed! He was just trying to make people like him, or...

Something.

_Kids are still depressed when you dress them up, and syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup_


	4. Carousel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games 'till somebody falls in love.

_**Or, in which William can't find love and keep it for more than a minute** _

His first love was Franklin Hill. Lived down the street from him with his arch-nemesis Maxie and their two asshole parents. He was blonde and freckled. A country boy. Though not really, as he was born in the same Georgian suburb that Murderface had lived in. But he looked like he had walked straight off of a farm. He was also Murderface's first kiss at age 10, which was fun for about two seconds until he got kicked out of the Carmichael-Hill household without even getting to say goodbye.

Most people thought of Frankie as "Maxie's less impressive brother". This was of course not helped by the fact that Frankie dreamed of going into the arts, more specifically, film direction and acting. (Not entering a sport in his town was practically social suicide.) His only other point of interest, to most, was that he tended to run around in overalls with no shirt underneath. Not in town, of course, but in parks and meadows. Murderface, however, could put him on the short list of people who showed him kindness, and for that he was eternally, eternally grateful. He had no chance in hell of being as good and kind as Frankie was.

They went on one date. It was hardly a date, really Frankie just came over and they watched "The Shining" and made out like awkward teens do. Grandma Stella caught them in the act, which was how all their kisses seemed to end. She called the Carmichael-Hill parents and they yelled at each other for what felt like years, Frankie and little William forced to stand there in shame. After that, Frankie was shipped off to some kind of conversion therapy thing, came back, and shot himself in the head not two days later. Murderface wasn't invited to the funeral.

His second love, if one could even call it that, was Genevieve De Merode. His only girlfriend, though it didn't feel like much of anything. Murderface had seen enough crummy sitcoms in his day to know that every marriage ended in unhappiness, but he wasn't sure if they were supposed to begin that way. (If they did, why would you even get married in the first place, instead of just having yearly breeding seminars to keep the population stable?) She was loaded with money. Had curly auburn hair and a metal-lined smile, cheeks dotted with dark freckles that crossed her pale skin. She dressed like she had just walked off of the set of "Singin' in the Rain" at times, and never seemed to wear pants, which became problematic in gym class.

Of course, she was that one friend who nobody actually liked. He'd even overheard Gillian Barker calling her a "stuck-up bitch", which obviously meant, to Murderface, at least, that she was perfect for him. After all, they were two souls unloved by the world. What could have possibly gone wrong?

Their conversations tended to consist of Genevieve brutally berating him. She thought she was better than him and, really, she was. Even if she was mean, at least she was rich and pretty good-looking once her braces eventually came off. A bit thick, but not enough for anyone to care. Murderface was incapable of even pretending to be attracted to her, though. And he didn't know why. She was fine-looking. She was a girl. What was missing? But her feelings towards him were mutual. Her favorite insult for him was "pig", but there were definitely others she'd pull out if she was feeling particularly nasty. Their relationship ended when she found out about his grades, and she called him a retard because he couldn't read very well. It hurt so much that Murderface immediately told her to get out of his fucking sight and never come back. The next day she told everyone he hit her, even painted on a fake bruise to boot, and he got pummeled to a fucking pulp.

His third love was Skwisgaar Skwigelf, though he never found out. (Or at least that was what Murderface liked to think) Because holy fucking shit that man was human perfection. Perfect body, perfect hair, perfect face, he was even perfect at music. And Murderface hated it. Because he wasn't gay. He had a girlfriend once, so he wasn't gay. Skwisgaar looked kinda like a girl though, he supposed. Kinda... but he still wasn't, and that was an issue.

Watching that man play was like being taken into heaven. He was convinced Skwisgaar was an angel sent down from above to teach the puny mortals what real music was about. Murderface cried the first time he heard his guitar, and he never really got over it. Such precision, such beauty, it almost made him ashamed. He couldn't play a bass half as good as Skwisgaar could play the guitar. and nobody even gave a single fuck about bass in a metal band. He'd jacked off to photos of Skwisgaar before, as much as he hated it, and never ever said so to anyone. Magnus found that one out the hard way and they never discussed it again.

He did try to take Skwisgaar out on a date. "You, me, a movie, juscht usch guysch". Skwisgaar agreed, but flaked out on him later, saying that that he was "busy". Murderface tried to start a fight with him, but it ended with Nathan putting him in a headlock and telling him to calm down. When asked what he was doing, Nathan referred to it as "hug therapy". That one didn't last too long. After all, Murderface wasn't gay.

His fourth love was Magnus Hammersmith. An unexpected twist in their relationship, considering Murderface saw him as sort of a father figure. But when your father figure asks you to suck his dick, it kind of ruins the illusion. Oh yeah, that was a thing that happened. It wasn't the first time Murderface had done it, and it wouldn't be the last, for certain. Magnus was a sociopath, sure, a fucking crazy person, but Murderface was desperate for someone to like him who wasn't  _dead_ or  _an asshole_. But Magnus was still an asshole. Sigh. Looking back, it wasn't much different from his high school endeavors, except Magnus insisted he cared about him, and that he was the only one. Which was a lie, of course, Magnus didn't care about him. Nobody did.

Their relationship was 75% sexual and 25% emotional. Magnus, if turned down for sex, would just go hit up a hooker or stripper or something for a quick fuck. Murderface had no right to say anything. He'd lusted after others while taken. Though it never stopped making him jealous. He and Magnus were... happy. They'd drink together and then fight, and then fuck, and then sleep. Repeat, repeat, repeat. It was how every relationship should work. 

Besides, he was kind of a masochist anyway. (Which he found out the hard way.) And Magnus was almost disturbingly willing to choke him out in bed, and he loved it. He worshiped the feeling of those hands around his neck. But in the end, it couldn't last forever. After all, the rest of the band had a somewhat shaky relationship with him. Part of Murderface had always known that, one day, the very foundations holding up his place in the band would fall apart. Soon enough, he was gone, and he swore vengeance, and he smacked the young bassist so hard it made his pasty, greasy cheek go numb and red. 

After that, Murderface swore not to date or love anymore men. Grandma was right.

And yet, it didn't stop him from his fifth love, Toki Wartooth, who replaced Magnus a year after he was kicked out. A perky young boy from Norway with an optimistic disposition. Immediately after meeting him, Murderface was taken back to age 10, when he loved Frankie Hill. Optimistic and kind and good. But this time it made him angry. Inhumanly angry, for whatever reason. Whenever Toki was nice to him, he knew what he was doing. He wanted something from him. He must've. Money or power or favor or sex or something.

And yet... and yet.

And yet he still fucking fell for it, and whenever Toki laid a hand on him, softly on his head or his back, he felt like he was rising to the heavens. It wasn't normal, it was so so wrong, and he was just going to get hurt again. He must've wanted to get hurt. He deserved to get hurt if he was going to be so stupid. He was thinking with his stupid, retarded brain and not just doing what he knew was smart. Because he was so goddamn lonely and it hurt so fucking much. He wanted to be loved so badly. He'd beg. He was desperate. He was desperate and Toki was there and he could just go over and ask, hey, maybe you wanna come to my room and we can watch Gummo together, or something?

Toki would hate him though. He wasn't good enough. He couldn't keep up.

_Why did you steal my cotton candy heart? You threw it in this damn coin slot._


	5. Alphabet Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I say "fuck your degree, Alphabet Boy"

_**Or, in which dyslexia ruins the public school experience** _

"Man, Shitface." William didn't look up from his desk. He cursed his teacher for reading those test grades out loud. "A ten outta one-hundred. My dog is probably smarter than you." No response. "You just gonna sit there? Forget how to talk?"

"No."

Maxie was so  _mean_ , and his friends were, too. 

"God, you can't even read."

"I can read!"

" _Duhhhh_." Richard Arbuckle crossed his eyes, allowing some drool to drip from his mouth. " _Ah cayn reeeead. A-B-D-F-H-Q-Z_." The other boys laughed. William dug his palms into his hair, trying to avoid any direct eye contact. "Like that? That's what you sound like.  _Hurr da durr, I can count tuh zero._ "

"Go away!"

"I'm betting your dad preemptively killed himself so he wouldn't have to see your report card!" Another cacophonous bout of laughter. Maxie began to over-dramatically act out. "Oh, dear god, it's too much! My son... is just too retarded! Gotta protect the family from the inevitable!" He stole a pencil off of the desk, fake-stabbing himself in the chest. "Blahh, uuurgh, aaaah! This is for the best! Bluhhhhh!" It was too much, it was too much, it was too much!

"I'll kill you all!" William shouted, but it wasn't threatening at all, because he was crying and it looked really lame. He pushed out of his desk and tried his damnest to leave, but his legs were shaking and he couldn't make himself fucking move. 

"Forget how to walk, too? Or you just gonna piss yourself again?" Isaac Moore, too. A trio of real mean sons of bitches. "It's okay, nobody expects any better from someone who can't read!" It was painful and scary and terrible. "Damn, you got all quiet... y'remember how to breathe, right?" He shuddered. "Y'think he's shitting himself."

"Naw, you'd be able to tell." 

William clenched his fingers together. "Hey, Faggotface! What's two plus two?"

"Issch fuckin' four!"

"Goooood. Good booooy. What's one plus one?"

"Thasch two! I'm goin' home!"

"Great job! Your knowledge will take you many places in the future!" The sarcasm was embarrassing.

"Yeah," Richard rolled his eyes. "Like the nearest Burger King." Said eyes then crossed once more. " _At least Ah can count how many France fries Ah waaaaawnt_!"

"No he can't, he can't count to ten, let alone four-million."

The teacher was in the bathroom. She'd never even notice. He pushed past the three. "You gonna go cry in the bathroom? Gonna go slit your wrists again? Think that'll make people actually like you? Too bad nobody likes  _gay pussy bitches_." He ran out and down the hall before anyone else could say a word. The classroom had been full, and yet, nobody defended him. It hurt. He wasn't stupid, and he could read!

And yet, a ten out of one-hundred didn't lie. And it wasn't the lowest grade he'd gotten that year, either.

Maybe he  _was_ stupid...

...Or maybe  _school_ was stupid!

_I know my A-B-C's, yet you keep teachin' me, I say "fuck your degree, Alphabet Boy"_


	6. Soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, I wish I never spoke.

_**Or, in which honesty is not the best policy at times** _

"You need to learn to get along with people."

Principal Myra was a stupid, frigid old bitch, and William hated her. It wasn't his fault that Elsie Jones was a terrible person, and Gillian, her stupid lackey, was hardly any better. Genevieve was just the icing on the shit-cake. "William, I want to know why you would hit a girl. Does it make you feel powerful? To see women in pain?" God, he was so  _over_ her militant feminist shtick. If he was being bothered, he'd hit whoever the fuck he wanted.

"...I didn't hit Genevieve."

"Look at that bruise, William."

"Issch fake, issch got glitter in it! Thasch juscht eyeshadow!"

"Don't deflect this on to me, you  _abusive heathen_." Genevieve crossed her arms, jutting out her lower lip. "I'm not your only victim and you know it." William sunk back into the chair, Genevieve sticking her tongue out at him. Dear god, she was still trapped in elementary school. 

"There are multiple accounts of seeing you striking poor Elisabeth and Gillian here."

"They're bitchesch."

"William!" Principal Myra pushed up her glasses, turning out her nose in disgust. "How dare you use that kind of language towards a lady!"

"Issch true! They're both terrible people! Elschie aschked me on a fake date 'n I got my assch kicked!"

"Elisabeth." The principal turned to her. "Is this really true?" It was obvious she didn't believe him. William's fingers knotted together and his eyes were darted towards the ground. Elsie shook her head, sitting tall like a snooty, bony dog on a pillow.

"I can tell you're  _desperate_ for someone to like you," Gillian spoke up, with that voice that made William want to scalp geese in a public park. "but don't pin your  _sick fantasies_ onto Elsie."

"Well, William, I see no other option." Principal Myra reached for the dreaded rotary phone of hatred. "I'm gonna have to call home. This behavior is unacceptable." Immediately William slammed his hand on the phone, pulling it away. "William! Hand that over!"

"You ain't callin' gramma!"

"Oh yes I am."

"You ain't gonna call my gramma!" He grabbed the phone and receiver, pulling it away from the desk.

"I can just use the front desk phone, you know."

" ** _You wrinkled old cunt, you ain't callin' my gramma!_** "

Silence. All eyes were on him. He processed the moment. Did... did he just say something? What did he say... oh fuck, he called his principal a cunt. And yet his mouth was still running. "It ain't  _my_ fault that  _you_ can't get anyone who likesch you enough to look at your oatmealy fuckin' wrinkle-titsch! I'd rather kill myschelf, even if I wasch a goddamn fosschil like you! You old-assch crone! Go back to the peat bog you came from!"

More silence. And in that silence, the principal grabbed the phone from William's unwitting hands.

"We'll be discussing suspension."

"Wait, wait, wait, I didn't--"

He could already hear the dial tone.

_God, I wish I never spoke, now I gotta wash my mouth out with soap..._


	7. Training Wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love everythin' you do, when you call me fuckin' dumb for the stupid shit I do.

_**Or, in which we love one another for how ugly we are** _

"Jesus, William."

That was how Magnus always seemed to greet him. Disparagingly, like he'd just done something terrible. In reality, all he'd done was fallen over after a night of heavy drinking. It felt like the whole world was spinning in huge circles, though. He blinked, staring into the white void of the ceiling. "You'd better not vomit."

"Fugh you, I puke where'n I wanna."

"William." He leaned in. "My gumdrop. My teddy bear. My  _little prince_ _._ "

"Dear god, don' talk like that. Y'schound totally schtupid."

"If you puke on my carpet, I will literally mop it off with your face."

"No yuh wont."

"I will and you know it."

William shot him a smug grin, awkwardly getting up into a sitting position. 

"Ah love you."

Magnus rolled his eyes. "Loooove you." William was making silly expressions, as the planet swayed from side to side to side again. His skin was hot and he felt like he wasn't going to make it through the night, and yet... it was exhilarating. Powerful. He'd die and he'd leave in an explosion. Fire. Boom. Swallow the flares. But he was still here, instead, his brain spinning and spinning like a dead cat in a dryer. He whined and tried to stand.

"You're so... stupid." 

"But you loooove me."

"Whatever." Magnus sighed. "You gonna quit talking so I can  _consider_ helping you off the floor."

"...Wanna fuck?"

Silence. Complete silence.

"Sure, whatever."

Success.

_Wanna ride my bike with you, fully undressed no training wheels left for you_


	8. Pity Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did my invitations disappear? Why'd I put my heart on every cursive letter?

**_Or, in which a party of one is better than a party of none_ **

Birthday party attempt number two, a few years later. He shouldn't have bothered with the invites -- he knew nobody would come, and surely enough, they didn't. Which meant another year of sobbing by himself on the toilet with a chocolate cake.

This one was  _red velvet_ , which was just a fancy version of chocolate, really. And damn him if he wasn't ready to lay belly-up on the floor covered in red cake like a fat, bloated corpse. There was no snake for this party. Rest in fucking peace, Powdered Toast Man, the Hobbes to William's Calvin. God rest her reptilian soul, and may the angels carry her up to snake heaven, where there were pinkie rats by the pound and a collective 40-million miles of tubing for her to explore.

Ah, but this, itself, was hell. Hell on earth. Where the only things to do were watch "The Toxic Avenger", and eat, and cry, and open veins.

This would be his last year of school. He was finally, finally old enough to drop out, and as soon as he could, he'd hit the road. Now was a time for celebration, for happiness, to make merry and pop bottles. Because the liquor cabinet wasn't locked. Which meant all the whiskey in the damn stupid house was his.

He took the square bottle and shoved the neck into the cake. Like he was  _injecting it_ with booze. His eyes were wide and his lips were wet with spit. And with "Gummo", "Funny Games" and "Kids", and a whole shit-fuck-ton of other movies, this would be a night to be remembered. "Nekromantik", "Guinea Pig", and God was on his side. It was a time for celebration, and yet,  _and yet_ , he felt incredibly empty inside.

"Happy Birthday to me."

He cut the cake. It was fucking soggy on the inside. And it tasted terrible.

_Xenia, Ohio._

God, this was a good fucking movie.

He leaned deep into his bed, staring at his shitty old TV. He closed his eyes halfway. "Happy Birthday dear Willy." Can of whipped cream. In the mouth. It tasted good, good, good. "Happy Birthday toooo meeee."

The whiskey cake was absolutely disgusting and he hated it, but he'd still eat it, because he put in the effort to waste that bottle of booze. "...Happy Birthday."

He was nursing sores and bruises that constantly collected. Scabs that never really left. Marks that wouldn't go away. For whatever reason he thought, maybe,  _his_ self-harm wounds wouldn't scar. But they did. Like a big ugly lattice of  _being pathetic_. Whatever. Whatever! He slammed his fist on the table.  _Fuck it all!_

"...Schtupid."

It was terrible. The worst birthday ever. "Gummo", and booze cake, and whipped cream, none of it could repair his broken heart.

_I'll cry until the candles burn down this place, I'll cry until my pity party's in flames!_


	9. Tag, you're it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let me take you for a joy ride, I've got some candy for you inside."

_**Or, in which the definition of sexual assault falls on deaf ears** _

William Murderface had never been sexually assaulted, and that was fact.

He'd been trapped in a car, once with a grown man. And he got scared and pounded on the glass windows until someone was kind enough to set him free. It was dark and the air conditioning was too high, and he got cold. He might've pissed himself, or bruised his knuckles trying to break through the tinted windows. He was found dirty and weeping, and the man got arrested. But nobody really cared about it the next day. 

Scary, yes, but not an assault, no.

While hitchhiking on a barren road with no houses, or people, and barely any cars, he managed to get the attention of a late night truck driver. It was dark and he crawled in beside him. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache and a wifebeater on. 

"Hullo."

He had mostly been quiet for the past hour in the truck, playing on his GameBoy and watching trees pass by. The stranger sniffed and continued staring into the road ahead of him, lips pressed together in a firm, thin line. "Where we goin'."

"Florida."

"Ooooh, Florida."

"I'll drop you when we cross th' border if you got any money." Silence. "If not, I'm lettin' you outta here right now."

"Money?" 

Shit. "I got five dollarsch."

"Five.  _Five dollars_." The man guffawed, as if William had just said the dumbest thing he'd ever heard. "Five for me to drive your ass to Florida? You eat a lot of paint as a baby? That ain't even half'a what I want."

"Well I ain't got no more."

"You got anything?"

" _I'll schuck you off to get to Florida_."

And then there was silence, and then he did. The man dropped him off just past the Florida-Georgia border. He then hitched another ride with a nice stranger in an SUV by himself, and did the same thing. One more truck driver, and he got to Port Saint Lucie just by the skin of his teeth. Every time it was worse, somehow, and his priest had already said he needed to stop, but this was different and he needed to leave home. He needed to leave. At any cost.

But that wasn't an assault, either.

He'd been drinking since high school, maybe even late middle school. He was a messy, depressed little kid, and he loved alcohol. And getting drunk felt good. It made him feel nice and weightless and happy all the time. So he could forget everything, and lay down, and laugh.

Magnus liked when he'd get drunk, too, because it made him malleable and stupid. And the dumber he got, the better he felt from the inside. His brain must've melted into his ass or something, to make it feel  _amazing._ He'd twitch and shriek and beg for it. When he was drunk he would feel no pain, and he'd never know it happened. It'd only hit him when he'd wake up and he'd be sore and sweaty and sticky with blood and cum. 

"Mornin'."

He'd say it so nonchalantly. Like nothing had even  _happened_. He was such an asshole.

"...Hurtsch."

"Yeah, that happens."

"Did we fuck?"

"You wanted to." He was already lighting a morning cig, puffing the tobacco smoke into William's face. It hurt his eyes. "Were you seriously that hammered? Should'a said so, you basically made me commit an act of rape. Could get arrested."

"Oh jeesch, no, I-I don't mind." He might've minded a little.

"So you won't tell?"

"I wouldn't even think of it, dude."

"Good." Another puff. It stung his corneas as it wafted over him, burning through his lungs. "When you get hammered, I have no control over you sometimes."

"Yeah, it happensch."

That wasn't an assault. It was fine, it was fine, it was fine. He'd asked for it all. Even if he was young, or drunk, or poor.

William Murderface had never been sexually assaulted, and that was  _fact_.

_Grabbed my hair, pushed me down, took the words right out my mouth, tag, you're it!_


	10. Milk and Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hush, little baby, drink your spoiled milk.

**_Or, in which infanticide is the answer to 99% of one's problems_ **

Stella Murderface had a problem.

A little problem, and yet, somehow, it had consumed her entire life. And it made noise. And it destroyed things. It ruined her day-to-day life, and it made her wish she'd just fucking die sometimes. Many years ago, that problem's name was Angus, and he was her second son. He was broad-shouldered and boisterous. Basically the opposite of his brother, Matthias, who was quiet and small and just a lovely dear. Angus' favorite pastime was painting upside-down crosses on his naked body and running down the street yelling "Fuck Jesus!", or knocking back stolen bottles of champagne in dumpsters while complaining about the government. As a baby, he would gum all over everything and piss wherever he wanted. After a year of the little brat's earth-shattering bullshit, she'd decided she'd had enough. And it would've all been over if her dear son and Oscar hadn't stopped her, but still.

Ah, Oscar "Thunderbolt" Murderface.

Damn him. And damn how she always listened to his soft, yellow-bellied shit all the time. She already had three brothers, dead at the hands of her own mom, and there was no shame in that. Children who were troublesome, after all, weren't worth wasting precious resources on. 

"You have only one chance on God's earth", she'd say, "and you do not get to misuse it in my home."

Words to live by.

Regardless, Angus lived out his years as a Satan-worshiping punk with a bad haircut and morbid fascinations all over. And every day, Stella would say that she should've killed that son of a bitch. And he went on to have a wife who he hated, and two kids who were just as aggressive as him. And that was that. Her first and only daughter, Rosalie, turned out to be a lesbian, god forbid, and took her leave at age 19, never to be heard from again. Matthias graduated his school with a masters in aerospace engineering, and while he never found a place to apply his skills, he was still her greatest son. He was a good kid who made bad decisions. Married some ugly immigrant and had a large number of children with her before he committed a murder-suicide and they both fell. People blamed insanity. But Stella knew the real reason.

That reason, that second problem, that  _uglier_ problem, was named William. The youngest son of Matthias. His other children moved in with Angus and his wife, at least until he insisted he had no more room. Most of the remainders went to Rosalie, presumably  _trying_ to get on their dear grandmother's bad side. And then there was the remainder of the remainders, William. Stella found he resembled a potato with limbs and a face. She'd heard about him, and how he ruined everything he touched, and he was dangerous.

And all of Angus' satanic wrist-cutting couldn't have prepared her for this.

He was breaking through cribs, tearing down curtains, manually turning appliances on and off, screaming at nothing and cracking glass windows. Matthias, that  _stupid, spineless sonuvabitch_ had probably just been too weak-willed to kill off an infant. But for this, the Lord would forgive. No way, no how, would he ever allow or  _want_ an abomination like William on his planet Earth.

Damn Oscar though, damn him.

Stella assumed he'd never been accustomed to the sight of child death. He was, after all, the only child in his family. Killing him would destroy a legacy, and the one purpose of existence is to reproduce and pass on one's genes. Li'l Thunderbolt was murder-proof.

"Lookit Angusch", she'd say, "you wouldn't let me do 'im in an' now look where he isch."

"There's no excuse to kill a child."

Bullshit.

He couldn't fathom the normalcy of it. He was raised differently. He was rich and spoiled and all by himself. Stella had to fight for her damn life every day, and now she was having the power to imbue that same fear into others. This power wasn't to be toyed with. The more the world got filled up with shit kids that came from brainless parents, the worse the world would become. This was how they would weed out the weak.

Then he got older, and dumber. And Stella tried, and tried, and tried again. The bigger he got, the harder it'd be to hide it. And he was, seemingly, unkillable. He wouldn't fucking die no matter how hard she tried. Even though it was easy. Even though he  _wanted_ to. 

Staring into the TV, she sighed as the door closed. He was gone into the world, and she had failed once more. Soon enough his fetid filth would spread like a virus, across the whole damn nation, maybe even the world, until all humans, animals, gods, beings, were swallowed by trash like him. Because that was what happened to little problems. They'd only get bigger unless snuffed out, nipped at the bud. But with her husband comatose and no more children in her home, in her  __ _life_ , she'd finally be freed from that job.

_Can't take it anymore, need to put you to bed. Sing you a lullaby where you die at the end_


	11. Pacify Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's getting on my nerves.

**_Or, in which Suki Lee comes over one night too many_ **

Suki Lee was six-foot eight-inches worth of bitch. William hated literally everything about her.

Her name wasn't really Suki Lee. It was something long and confusing. So long, in fact, that, she just put her pseudonym in as Suki Lee, and that was that. Nobody gave a fuck what her name was. People only had two interests, and those both resided on her chest.

And the less William knew about her, the better.

One night. Magnus sometimes liked to have girls over. He insisted it was none of William's business, which he resented wholeheartedly, but he knew Magnus' heart wouldn't waver. Suki Lee crawled into bed with him and William was banished to the couch for the night. He drank all the beer in the fridge and threw the bottles out the window. Fuck 'em, fuck 'em all. He didn't need to sleep with Magnus every night anyway, he'd gotten through at least 17 years without it. 

Two nights. Suki Lee came over again, with Magnus nearly fucking her in the doorway. They all ate dinner together and William stared intently into Suki Lee's eyes. He was shoveling Chinese food in his mouth and furrowing his brows as she smiled and laughed and said nothing of substance. She was a cokewhore, what the fuck could she have to talk about, really? Magnus only cared about getting her chubby lips on his dick anyhow. William could do that, too! Was he not good enough? Was he falling behind?

Three nights. Suki Lee was hanging off of Magnus' arm like a sleeve. William was tired of her. Tired of that stupid bitch ruining his fun all the time. He didn't want dinner. He must've been putting on weight or something. She was skinny. All the weight went to her tits and to collect around her silicone ass. All the lard in her face would seep into her ruby red lips and her young childish cheeks. "You know, I think isch about time you  _go_." Magnus gently smacked him across the nose. It hurt his heart more.

Four nights. He didn't come out for dinner. He could hear her. His stomach hurt.

Five nights. He couldn't take it anymore, so he tried to just take a little snack, but he ended up completely stuffing his face. No wonder his boyfriend went out with desperate crack addicts for quickies every night. William was fat and he still wet the bed, and he was greasy, and ugly. But he knew he had something Suki Lee didn't.

Six nights. William refused to allow a week of Suki Lee.

Dinner came around, with burgers and fries and soda. Suki Lee was giggling and talking about some inane shit while Magnus' brain was already five feet deep into her cootch. William was chewing on his plastic straw, wondering how to go about this.

"Hey, Willy."

Magnus tapped the table, getting his attention. "You've been like, weird for a few days. Did something. Y'know. Happen?"

"Oh no, not at all." He stuffed a fistful of fries into his mouth. They put just the right amount of salt. "She'sch been here a lot, huh."

"Yeah. So?"

"Juscht pointin' it out." He somewhat inconspicuously undid the button on the top of his shirt, which he'd had since high school prom. A few of his favorite scars stuck out along the highest parts of his chest. Like a dainty artwork. He could see Magnus' expression faltering. Suki Lee was still oblivious. He pulled the second button, allowing the shirt to fall just around his left shoulder.

"Oh fuck, are you okay?" Suki noticed the marks.

"No idea what you're talkin' about." He was practically  _shrugging his top off at the dinner table_ and had absolutely no shame about it. "Can't you wear a shirt that hidesch a little more of your boob? You're like, baschically naked."

"Those scars look pretty bad, are you like, uh... suicidal?"

"Nah." He was being a hypocrite, he knew he was. And that was what made Magnus love him. The fact that he couldn't possibly ever meet  _anyone_ worse than him. The fact that he was dating scum. He knew more than anything that Magnus' only interest was finding someone worse than him, and while Suki Lee was trash, she was nowhere near the dumpster fire that William was. "Hey Maggie. What do you schay we go out for a drink or two later."

"Uh..." He was sweating bullets. He must've not told her he was a  _taken man_. 

"Ohh, thasch right. You were gonna go jam your cock inschide Schuki fuckin' Lee."

Suki Lee, even under her fake tan, was clearly going pale. "Yeah? Scho you can get coke money?  _Yeah? You wanted money to buy coke, yeah?_ _"_

"I, uh..."

"William, you're--"

"I can't be asch good-lookin' asch her, sure. But I can take all thisch..." And the shirt fell. He was decorated with scars, scabs and bruises. "Half of 'em are mine an' half of 'em are yoursch, right?" Magnus' face was converting into that of pure rage. Suki Lee looked horrified, backing away from the table. "I love it. I worship it. An' you can't do that for coke. Not even for coke, you can't, an' you know it, an' you know it good."

"Magnus, did- did you-" 

Magnus was silent.

"He won't ever love schomeone the way he lovesch me. Scho I want you to get the  _fuck_ outta my housche."

Suki Lee stood, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. William cocked a shaky grin as she collected her things and left, shutting the door without so much as a "goodbye". He turned to Magnus, chest still bared and legs shaking.

There were footsteps. Magnus approached him. And after Suki Lee's enormous figure left, he once again looked like a titan to William, grabbing him by the hair and leaning down, breathing smoke directly into his nose and throat and eyes. He couldn't stop smiling. "You feelin' up for a couple roundsch?" 

"I'm up for it. With one exception."

And a fist rocketed below William's ribs, sending bile to his mouth. He just barely choked it back. "You keep your fucking mouth shut."

That was fine, as long as it was him, and nobody else.

_Pacify her, she's getting on my nerves, you don't love her, stop lying with those words._


	12. Mrs. Potato Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you swear you'll stay forever, even if her face don't stay together?

_**Or, in which Abigail's mommy issues make things hurt a whole lot more** _

Abigail's mother was addicted to getting plastic surgery. In fact, she hardly ever went a year without somehow looking different. Fuller lips, sharper cheeks, better nose, bigger chest, botox injections until her face wouldn't move, skin treatments and lipo and god knew what else. She didn't really get it, when she was little. Her perception of it was just that mommy would leave, and come home all different every now and then. They'd unwrap her bandages like tearing into a present on Christmas morning.

Something went wrong, though. An injection went into the wrong place, or something broke, or popped. Her face became an asymmetrical valley of tight-pulled leathery skin, strung over malformed cheeks. Her eyes were constantly tugged from the sides, making her almost look catlike, and her lips were pinched and abnormal. Something, everything, had gone wrong. She'd gotten her brow lifted one time too many, she'd been stuck and poked into a few times too often. She looked like a monster, and she felt like a monster. The present was instead a lump of coal, and her husband, Abigail's father, left to go find a more attractive woman.

She was raised alone, by a mother who was torn apart by mankind and its standards. It ended up killing her too soon when botulism toxin was injected improperly, and seeped into the wrong parts of her body. Abigail wasn't even home. She was at college.

Working with bands, big and small, meant appearances were an issue. Everyone wanted to be the next Mick Jagger, and everyone wanted to be swamped with women. That was merely a fact of life. Fame lead to loneliness, lead to touch-starvation, and so on. A girl with only superficiality in mind wouldn't fuck a poor, ugly man, and even if you're rich, there's only so much that money can do to make up for a bad, bad face. 

Seeing the metal helmet rising at the Brutallies, she was taken back to the snipping of the bandages from her mother's face. The way her face had shifted all wrong. The way Murderface stood in front of the mirror for  _days_ with that stupid helmet on. And he always said, "I'm gonna look way better thisch time. Nobody'd love me then, but now, now isch different."

"I don't think you needed surgery."

"Shuddup!" He'd slam his fists on his desk, and he'd start throwing things as Abigail ducked behind his door. "Bitch! You don't know anything! You don't know what ischh like! You've never been  _ugly!_ _"_

And she didn't say anything, because he was mostly right, she'd never been well and truly ugly. Not the way he had been. Not the way he had  _felt_. But there was something foreboding, about the mask, about the fact that they had to hide his surgical marks under a mask at all. Bandages would've been fine, or at least would've been  _cheaper_. 

And yet there he was, onstage, prying the mask off. And he was swollen and infected and screaming, running and breaking through mirrors like a caged animal. Everyone was running wild, lunacy overtaking the awards ceremony as he was struck down once more by his band, the way her mother was struck down so many years ago. And suddenly, Abigail almost felt, this was the one chance she had. Now that she was older and smarter and better, she wouldn't let the victim fall twice.

She grabbed his big, calloused hands, watching as tears bubbled from his puffy eyelids. His eyes were red and he was  _scared_. This monster, this ugly monster, this scary monster, was terrified. Abigail sat him up in the now-empty auditorium, and wrapped her arms around him, even though he struggled.

"It's okay. Shh. It's okay."

"I wanna die, lemme go, I juscht- I wanna kill myschelf, I wanna diiieee..."

"Calm down. You're okay. We can fix this."

"No we can't, I'm doomed to be ugly!"

"We can, and we will." She wiped his eyes and nose, petting his scraggly hair. "...I'm so sorry." 

Murderface closed his eyes, hiding his face in Abigail's shirt. He shook like a frightened baby bird, closing his eyes. "...it's alright. Nobody'll hurt you. Nobody's mad. It's okay, everything's... fine." Her chest was tight, but she'd done it. If only her mother were alive to see.

_Mrs. Potato Head tell me, is it true that pain is beauty? Does a new face come with a warranty? Will a pretty face make it better?_


	13. Mad Hatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where is my prescription?

**_Or, in which prozac is best taken with liquor_ **

Prescriptions were dumb. Antidepressants didn't work. Dr. Twinkletits was a hack. Fuck the government.

The only medication William had ever even  _touched_ was advil, laxatives, and whatever could get him high the fastest. The idea that he needed a prescription for an antidepressant was dumb dumb dumb and he didn't want them.

He swallowed. He was afraid to take them.

If he wasn't sad, then what was he?

A fistful of ones and zeros. Meaningless world-code. Molecules. Atoms. A lot of words that describe nothing. Worthless shit, shit, shit. 

And he stared into the pill bottle. They weren't the brain-wiping hell drugs that everyone said they were. But they didn't really cure anything. So why was he so  _damn scared_ of a couple of pills? If he took them it'd make Twinkletits and Offdensen and Toki all shut the fuck up. He whined, drawing his knees into his chest. He missed his childhood. Early Dethklok. The old Dethklok, before they had the money for a psychologist.

* * *

 

Summer of 2002, in an overcrowded bar in Tallahassee. 

"Welcome to the Dethklahk afterparty."

It was like Pickles was welcoming ol' Toki into another dimension. Another realm. Which he supposed, was accurate. He  _felt_ like he was in another fucking dimension, with all the stimulants banging through his tiny body, his brain cooking with the heat of booze and drugs and shit. Legs broken, heart broken, body broken. His heart thumped like the thrumming beat of whatever song was playing from Pickles' crummy boombox. God, he had nearly everything on cassette tape and CD.

"First concert, first drink, whaddaya want. They don't card."

Toki blinked.

"Waters?"

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?" Murderface finally pulled himself into a half-standing position, leaning on the bar and staring at the floor. "You gotta get... get a shot. After your firscht conschert. Thasch what we did."

"Alcohols poisons de brains."

"Oh okay then, I had no idea the fucking D.A.R.E. wasch in here. Pour me another glassch!"

"Glass'a what?" Pickles stared at him.

"Anythin'!"

"Okey, okey, I think you've had enough. Are you on  _ecstasy?"_

"It wasch cheap and I feel good."

"...I'll give you a pass fer now, but we ain't makin' this a regular thing."

"You have fuckin' track marksch from all the heroin you do."

_"I'm an adult and I get to do heroin."_

Nathan was draped over a nearby table, staring at the ceiling with his legs kicked up in the air. Toki was staring at him, and then at Pickles, and then Murderface. Then to the bathroom door where Skwisgaar had taken some unfortunate woman to infect her with every STD known to man.

"Hey, y'know... thisch'sch the bar that, uh... that Maggie usched to drive me to."

"Maggies?"

"Murderface, c'mahn now." He scruffed his hand in Murderface's matted hair-lump. "...Y'ain't gonna see 'im no more."

"Thasch too bad. He'd let me do heroin."

"Exactly."

Nathan shot his leg out into the aisle, prodding the back of Pickles' head with his toe. Murderface grinned, because it was funny, and then he laughed, because it got funnier the more he thought about it. 

He slammed his hand into the table. And then he fell. And he couldn't stop laughing.

Shadows were covering the skylight and he was happy.

So very, very happy...

* * *

 

Autumn of 2016, Mordland.

Damn he felt old. It must have been years since he'd so much as looked at one of those backwater clubs.

He sighed, sighed, sighed. He dropped a pill in his mouth and swallowed it with a mouthful of brandy.

_You like me best when I'm off my rocker. Tell you a secret, I'm not alarmed. So what if I'm crazy? The best people are._


	14. Play Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't give a fuck about you anyway. Who ever said I give a shit about you?

_**Or, in which "friends to lovers" is less romantic than previously thought** _

"Mornin'."

Damn him, sitting there at the dining table with a magazine like nothing happened.

"What the fuck happened yeschterday, Maggie."

"Huh?" He stared for a moment. "Uh... Oh, fuck, yeah."

"You think I'm  _gay_ or schomethin'?"

"...You did say you were open to it."

"That wasch a year ago."

"Come on, William, do you think I'm that dense?" Magnus stood up, dropping the paper on the table. "Year ago or not, you like guys. Don't try and guilt-trip me about this shit when it was your goddamn idea to begin with."

"I hate you."

Murderface crossed his arms. Defiant. Rude.

"Don't act like you wouldn't do it again."

"Shuddup."

"I care about you. Dumbass."

"Yer a pervert!"

"So are you." They were locking eyes with one another. "You wanted to fuck everyone else."

"Schtupid."

Magnus grabbed his hand. How romantic.  _How disgusting._ Murderface should've seen the writing on the wall from the beginning. And his fingers were tight, but they were warm, and he was  _lonely_ and he trusted that sonuvabitch. 

"Let's just take this secret to the grave."

Murderface whimpered, but leaned into a hand on the back of his head, drawing him closer to Magnus' bony chest. "I love you." Goddamnit, he was serious, wasn't he? (And why, why had he been so fucking stupid?!)

"...Love you too."

_If I share my toys, will you let me stay? Don't wanna leave this play date with you._


	15. Teddy Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were comforting and quiet, how did love become so violent?

_**Or, in which "I love you" and "I hate you" have the same meaning sometimes** _

He'd locked his windows tight, tighter than he'd ever need to. No more Tallahassee blues, no more beatings. No more late night drunken cock-suckings, no more being strangled in bed, no more getting rammed while vomiting into the toilet. No more. No more.

And yet, he felt as though he were being watched all the time.

It was, maybe, just remnants of his pain. Oh, the pain. The pain he swallowed and spat into the sheets. Sticky mixtures of cum and blood all leaving their taste on his tongue. His tongue which was used for atrocities. Hell was the only place he'd go, and they'd meet again. William buried his face in his pillow and sighed. He wished he hadn't been so stupid, to make that offer, to move in, to stay with him, or anything like that. It must've been his fault.

It must've been.

Nobody would hurt him like that for no reason. It was karma, a prayer, a precedent, something. Maybe it was for Genevieve, or Frankie, or Gillian, but not just because Magnus  _wanted to._ Nobody would do that because they wanted to. No one on earth, on any plane, in Heaven or Hell, would be that cruel.

He looked through the window.

_Those eyes!_

He crawled deep into his blankets, staring. There were eyes. They couldn't have been streetlights or cars. Eyes.  _Eyes!_ He whimpered.

Those eyes, harsh, cruel. The eyes he looked into. With hands around his neck, and the pain, pain, pain. The eyes he stared into and the fingers that fed ecstasy into his mouth, the pills he was still dependent on, even though he'd never touched anything stronger than booze and marijuana when he lived in Georgia. The blood on the sheets, the blood, the blood. Those eyes. Son of a bitch, he was still here! Must've followed him from Port St. Lucie.

He could still feel that long hair touching his chest when they'd press together in holy union. Like a marriage of debauchery, of agony and regret. He crossed his legs, as though the feeling of being torn, of being  _invaded_ , was following him wherever he went.

All the knives. The knives. The photos with the faces crossed out, and circles, and cumstains all over his pretty little cheeks.

_He was only a kid. He was a child, he didn't know!_

He covered his eyes. Tears were gushing out like blood from his wounds. Like puke. Fucking eye-puke. Gross. Projectile vomit. Smelly bile all over his palms, salty, salty eyeball barf. He couldn't stop fucking weeping and he didn't know why. It was awful.

Love.

God, what a meaningless fucking thing.

He missed when him and Magnus looked at sunsets. When they walked together, and watched movies. And they didn't fuck, or kiss, and he didn't get beaten, they were just two friends. Why? Why couldn't they have just been  _two fucking goddamn stupid friends?_

Pain. 

Piss!

Motherfucker!

_It was all his fucking fault!_

_Teddy bear, you were my teddy bear. Everything was so sweet, 'til you tried to kill me._


	16. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, respectfully...

_**Or, in which Genevieve speaks words iced with venom** _

"You can't even read? You're seriously kind of retarded."

He paused. Staring into his math problems. Wasn't that word...  _discouraging?_ Because he didn't know how to do math? His school counselor, at least, had said, never to use the 'r' word, or the 'f' word, or the 'd' word, or the 'n' word. Not that it stopped anybody, but he at least attempted to take Mrs. Hartevelt's words to heart. 

"...Huh?"

"I said you're kind of retarded, Will. You'd have to be a total moron to not know how to read in freshman year."

"But I can read."

"You said you had dyslexia. My daddy told me that means you can't read."

"I can, it juscht... takesch me awhile."

"Yeah." She paused. "So you're retarded."

"I ain't, don't even schay that! You remember what Mrsch. Hartevelt schaid..."

"Mrs. Hartevelt? Really? I had no clue you were quite so invested in all the  _retarded_ shit she says."

"She'sch got a pschychology degree!"

"Daddy says if you have decent grades, getting a psychology degree is almost as easy as getting a cold."

"Maybe your daddy isch an idiot!"

Genevieve gasped, drawing a hand to her chest. Like he'd said some kind of grand offense towards her family. "I can read juscht fine, it juscht takesch me awhile, but I can read, 'n I can do math. You hear me, woman?!"

"You can't talk about daddy that way! You're nothing more than a slack-jawed pig!"

"You're a schlack-jawed pig!"

"Fat, stupid, retarded pig! You're just jealous that my daddy doesn't look like a caveman! Troglodyte! Fish-face!"

"I ain't fat!"

"You are fat, and you're gonna continue being fat because you're too stupid to control yourself!"

"At leascht I don't have braschesch, Megatron! I don't need fuckin' robotic augmentationsch to keep my schtupid teeth schtraight!"

"You fucking swine! Why don't you just kill yourself like every other fatty does before they reach high school?!"

"Get--" He stood up and pointed at the door. "Get the fuck out of my housche! I never- I never wanna schee you again! You juscht- all you do isch make fun of me and call me a pig and you don't give a fuck about me! No wonder even all the other inschufferable broadsch hate you! Get out!"

Genevieve puffed out her cheeks, grabbing her stupid pink bag.

"Fine then! You'll be sorry!"

"Whatever!"

She stomped out and slammed the door. Suddenly, William felt, ten-thousand pounds were lifted from his chest. He was finally free from that mythic fucking bitch.

_So I'm taking back what's mine, you'll miss the slice of heaven I gave to you last night_


	17. Gingerbread Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby how do I say this politely?  
> LOVE ME HARDER AND DON'T BE NICE, PLEASE!

_**Or, in which it comes full circle**_

Pickles.

A motherly type. Angry, sure, but always good to him. Carried him while he was drunk. Held his hands. Wiped his tears. He was funny and nice and really, really cool. He loved to drink and tell jokes and told Murderface he was special. He was gentle and yet powerful. 

A parental figure. Took better care of Murderface than he did of himself. He took Murderface to bars and carried him back, brought him to arcades and laughed with him and watched movies with him. Rented them, too. They had fun together. And Pickles told him he was worth the space and air he took, and that he was good and important and deserved to smile. And that was something no man, nor beast, or kitty cat or doggy had ever said to him.

A load of shit, it was.

Because Murderface knew. His real parents, his real father, knew the truth. That he was so intolerable, so painful to be around, that it hurt everyone around him. Because his dad was smart enough to pour draino in his baby food and press pillows to his face, at least he tried,  _he tried._ He wanted to do the world a service. And he didn't need a parent who was so  _stupid_ that he'd encourage the existence of even a single William Murderface. He was kind and good, Pickles was, and that was exactly why Murderface couldn't love him.

Nathan.

Rough around the edges, harsh-toned and brash. He didn't do much thinking, instead he'd just do stuff. Headstrong, never took advice from anyone. And yet, he was always gentle with Murderface, he always took things slow. He rarely ever shouted or screamed at him the way he might at Skwisgaar. 

He loved heavy metal, as was obvious from his passionate dreams about it. Sometimes he'd take Murderface out on joy rides with music blasting through the stereo, screaming through his brain. He could feel the bass in the vibrations of the seats and the windows and the glovebox. They'd drive past dreamy glassy buildings and pull into burger shops, overfeeding themselves before shoving through the nearest mini-mall and attempting to climb the walls. Nathan took care of him.

Fucking ridiculous, for sure.

Murderface knew, and gramma knew, too. That he wasn't deserving of laughter or kindness. That he was meant to be resigned to his room, trapped with a bible and a box of razorblades. That he didn't deserve to have anything that would bring him joy. Anything that made him smile had to die, and she knew. It was what happened to grandpa, and his snake, and Frankie, after all. He didn't want to be happy. He didn't want to serve an injustice to the world he lived in. Even if he said he wanted it. Even if he begged. Nathan was fun and gentle, and Murderface didn't need him.

Skwisgaar.

The prettiest man alive. He had long blonde hair and soft, plush lips. He was talented, too. He could play really well. So well, that every time he struck a chord it felt like a knife in Murderface's brain, right in the little pleasure receptor, where all the dopamine seeped out.

He wasn't very friendly, but he was still a brother in arms. If Murderface fell, he'd reach out a hand. They'd sit together in bars, trying to get with women. (Skwisgaar always succeeded. Murderface never, ever did. He hardly even tried.) Sometimes Skwisgaar would take his hands and help him play his bass, and in those moments. Murderface felt like he was ascending into a new dimension. In those moments, tears threatened his eyes, because he loved that man more than anything.

But what a waste.

After all, Murderface knew, and Genevieve knew too. That he was unlovable, and incapable of doing anything for himself. That he didn't get the chance to choose who he loved. He'd just be saddled with whatever was left. Because he was that word, with a capital R, the one Mrs. Hartevelt told him not to say no matter what. Because he couldn't read, and he hit girls, and he still wet the bed, and he couldn't hold his liquor, and he liked to kiss boys. Skwisgaar was angelic and beautiful, and Murderface would never deserve him.

Toki.

The most friendly and warm human being on the planet. He loved "kitties cats" and "puppies dogs", and he loved stuff in pale blue. His favorite movies were "Felidae" and "The Aristocats", and he loved to make Norwegian desserts in the kitchen and laugh and smile and beam sunshine onto the planet.

He was the kindest of all. He took Murderface's hands, and looked at him, and didn't even say he was ugly. He made multekrem and krumkake and it kept Murderface all nice and pudgy, the way some people said he should've been. Toki would buy stuffed animals for everyone, and Murderface would sleep with his every night. Toki said he had lovely eyes and beautiful soft hands, and that he was perfect the way he was. He was so nice it made Murderface want to cry.

Because he must've manipulated him.

For, Murderface knew the truth. And Magnus knew it better than anyone. That Murderface wasn't  _meant_ to be loved. He wasn't built to be loved, he was built to be hated. Being hurt was his purpose, he would never be anything more, or anything less. To the point where the pain felt good, and he wanted it. The pain felt so good, that he knew nothing else. Love, and warmth, and happiness, were completely fucking alien to him. Even if Toki was wonderful and warm, Murderface didn't  **want** him.

...He didn't want any of it.

_I need the gingerbread man, the one I'll feed_

_The gingerbread man, the one I'll eat_

_One who's always crazy, that never calls me baby,_

_That's the one that I want, all you boys are not..._

**_him..._ **


End file.
